"Owch!"
"Why, what's the matter? Did I hurt you?"
"No, sir."
The horse took his new burden unkindly, plunged and danced.
"Afraid?" asked the Captain. John's eyes sparkled merrily and he shook his head.
"You're a pretty brave boy, aren't you?" said the stranger. But John shook his head again.
"I'll bet you are, and a tol'able good boy, too, aren't you?"
"No, sir, I'm not a good boy, I'm bad. I'm a very bad boy, indeed."
The horseman laughed. "I don't mistrust but you're good enough."
"Oh, no. I'm not good. I'm wicked! I'm noisy! I make my ma's head ache every day! I usen't to be so wicked when I was a little shaver. I used to be a shaver, did you know that? But now I'm a boy. That's because I'm eight. I'm a boy and I'm wicked. I'm awful wicked, and I'm getting worse. I whistle. Did you think I could whistle? Well, I can.... There! did you hear that? It's wicked to whistle in the house—to whistle loud—in the house—it's sinful. Sometimes I whistle in the house—sometimes." He grew still and fell to thinking of his mother, and how her cheek would redden with something she called sorrow at his shameless companioning with the wearer of a blue uniform. But he continued to like his new friend; he was so companionably "low flung."